


Better Late than Never

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Depression, Facials, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Gen, Harry Watson swears like a fucking trooper, Hospitals, Injury, M/M, Masturbation, Morning Sex, Post Reichenbach, Scary big sister Harry, Sleepy Sex, Smut, no incest don't worry guys, slightly sexually inept Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 14:13:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Reichenbach; John is injured in an unprovoked attack. Harry keeps vigil by his hospital bedside the best she can, and encounters an unexpected visitor.</p><p> </p><p>  <span class="small">Rated Explicit for future smut (eventual John/Sherlock, don't worry!), and Harriet Watson's very filthy mouth.</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to try and update once a fortnight at least, if not sooner. I'll do my best. I've not read much fic with an emphasis on Harry (because we're not given much information about her in the show), so I decided to flesh out my own thoughts into something. 
> 
> Comments and constructive criticism are very much welcome, please don't be shy :) and thank you for reading!
> 
> Many, many thanks to my sounding board, you know who you are :)

Harry Watson sat quietly in the plastic hospital chair. One hand held her brother’s lightly; the other held the book she had unsuccessfully been trying to read since she’d arrived, three hours earlier. The doctors had told her that John needed to be sedated - for a few more days at least - to prevent any complications with the healing of his wounds. Despite the fact he had been unconscious (and therefore oblivious to her presence), she couldn’t bring herself to leave. Harry felt like she'd spent the majority of her adult life letting her brother down. She was ashamed that it'd taken the death of his best friend to jolt her to her senses, and realise just how much distance she had created between them. She was doing her best to make it up to him.

The machines that lined the wall above John’s head continued with their soothing symphony of whirrs and beeps. Harry’s eyes followed the tubes and wires that surrounded her brother – she traced the line of his IV, from the needle in the back of the hand furthest away from her, all the way up to the transparent bag suspended from a pole on the other side of the bed. She had no clue what any of the wires or machines or anything did. She resolved to ask him once he was better. John would know them all in an instant.

Finally, giving up all hope on the book, she marked her page and placed it next to the two Get Well Soon cards on the bedside table. Wincing at the sound of the metal legs against the tiled floor, she pulled the chair forward, bringing her slightly closer to the bed. She placed both of her hands over John’s as it rested on top of the blanket.

She sighed. “Fucked up, didn’t I, little brother?” She stroked his relaxed fingers gently as she spoke. “After all you did for me, and for Mum, and I threw it back in your face. Never said thank you, not properly, anyway. I, I don’t blame you, you know, for how you were when you got back from Afghanistan. I didn’t deserve a second chance, after Sherlock.... I still don’t. But... we're all each other has right now, so you're still stuck with me, hm? I think we need each other. What would Mum say, hey?"

Harry bit her lower lip as she thought, searching for the right words to use. In the end, she sighed again, and simply said, "Sorry. I'm sorry, John. I'll... whatever you need from me. Let me be the one to look out for you. I'll be here, I'll be a proper big sister, I'll watch out for you. I'll do better for you, I promise. None of this nodding to each other in the kitchen bullshit, you're my brother, you live in my house, let's start acting like it, yeah?" She paused again, and smiled at John, even though he wouldn't know it. "I've been here since they brought you in. Most days they have to kick me out." She ended with a forced laugh, blinking back the tears that had welled up in her eyes.

As if on cue, the lovely but frazzled looking student nurse knocked on the door of John's private room before pushing and holding it open. "Ms Watson, you know visiting hours ended half an hour ago," she chastised. "Come on."

Harry nodded, defeated. "All right, Suze, let me just say goodbye, yeah?" The nurse offered her own nod, granting the request, but stayed in her position by the door. Harry rolled her eyes; she was getting a reputation for hanging around too long. She stood, pressed a small kiss to John's forehead, and promised to return tomorrow. "I'm going, now, see?" she said with a smirk as she passed the nurse. "See you in the morning."

She was halfway down the four flights of stairs before she realised that book she'd been trying to read was still sitting on the bedside table. She'd borrowed it from someone at work; they'd kill her if she misplaced it, not having the best track record with returning things. She swore to herself and turned around, jogged back up the stairs and regretted it when she got to the top. Out of breath, she babbled an explanation about books and tables and "guts for garters" to the senior nurse that passed her in the corridor; taking a bemused smile for consent, she rushed towards John's room.

As she nudged the door open with her shoulder, Harry rummaged in her pocket for her keys, to save her a bit of time when she finally reached the car park. She heard a voice in the room, and snapped her head up to see who it was. She expected to see one of John's doctors, doing their rounds, making observations to themselves. Instead she saw a ghost; a dead person; a spirit. She saw Sherlock Holmes.

"The actual _fuck_ are you doing here?" she exclaimed, keys jangling loudly in her hand as she pointed an accusatory finger at him.

He stood, silently, and with one step back and then two steps forward, he reached and passed her the forgotten book. "I am assuming you returned for this," he stated, and moved to sit back in the chair Harry herself had not long vacated.

With a scowl, Harry threw the book to the floor at the end of the bed, and grabbed the sleeve of Sherlock's coat. "Not so fast. You haven't answered my question."

After a few moments of trying to out-glare each other, Harry pushed Sherlock away forcefully, causing him to careen backwards and topple into the plastic chair. She moved to stand over him, her arms folded and her face like thunder. "Well," she said with a huff, "you'd better start fucking explaining what in God's name is going on. You're dead. He," she paused, pointing over her shoulder, "he thinks you're dead, and it fucking broke him, you know?"

Sherlock merely looked at her for a fraction of a second before returning his gaze to the clock on the far wall, just behind Harry. He remained silent, and crossed his legs.

"I can stand here all fucking day, mate," Harry announced, crowding herself further into Sherlock's personal space. "Determination's a Watson trait, he didn't learn that in the fucking army."

"You didn't seem all that determined to give up drinking," Sherlock finally retorted. "One might assume nurture as opposed to nature, with regards to displays of--"

He was stopped mid flow by the force of Harry's hands grabbing at the lapels of his suit jacket, and an angry face suddenly in his line of sight. "Listen. You fucking left him, and I picked up the pieces, like he's picked up mine, and then this... And then this stupid fucking mindless attack, some stupid cocky kid with a knife. He's been alright, recently. He was beating the depression again, I was getting my brother back." She stopped to catch her breath and loosen her grip on the fabric of Sherlock's jacket. "I was getting him back, he was nearly there, nearly happy. You don't get to come back and act all superior and fucking hoity-toity just because three years ago you were half in love with each other and too fucking weak, the both of you, to say anything." She let go of Sherlock, and rubbed a hand over her face as she stepped back. "You lost the right to do that when you made him... when you made him watch you die. You sick, twisted bastard."

Sherlock regarded Harry thoughtfully for a minute or two. It incensed her, the way he didn't immediately retort. She wasn't used to this delayed response style of argument. Just as she was about to open her mouth to provoke him again, Sherlock began to speak, in a quieter, softer voice.

"Harriet, I did it," he started, faltering uncharacteristically as his gaze wandered to his friend, his best friend, sedated in a hospital bed. His brow crinkled in confusion and annoyance. He composed himself and tried again. "Harriet, I did it to save his life; he'd have been killed where he stood in the street. Three snipers, three bullets. My friends. John."

Harry gripped the frame at the base of John's bed, her knuckles white as she tried to process Sherlock's confession. "You couldn't tell him? You couldn't warn him? You should have fucking seen him, Sherlock, he nearly--"

"Don't, please. I know what you're going to say, but don't." He inspected his fingernails as he spoke, unable to make eye contact. "Don't. I couldn't. I couldn't risk being discovered."

Harry hummed an assent. "All right. But... he would have done it, yeah; he'd have done the same for you, but really done it, you know. He'd have died to save you, he told me. He's told me so many times."

"I know." He looked up as he agreed, a sad smile curving his lips. His eyes flicked back to the clock on the wall. "The nurse will be here to kick us out again in a minute. I'll go now." He crouched to pick up the book from the floor as he passed, and handed it to Harry again, before making his way to the door.

Harry looked from her brother, and then to Sherlock, who was almost out of the door. "Sherlock?" she called out. He paused, and turned to face her again, waiting to hear her question. "Yes?"

"Don't... don't come back to the hospital. If you want to see him, you see him on my terms, and that means when he's ready, when he's better. Not before. None of your little tricks. Wait. You made him wait, now it's your turn. All right?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. Goodbye, Harriet."

Harry patted John's foot through the blankets. "I'm really going now. Back tomorrow. Be good, no flirting with the nurses in your sleep, yeah? And tell me if that sneaky bugger comes back." She gave him one last smile, and left the room, leaving John to the beeps and the whirrs of the machines that watched over him in her absence.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry waits for answers, and for John to wake up.

Harry paced the corridor outside John’s hospital room. It felt like hours ago when the doctors had told her they would start to bring him round. They warned her that they’d need to keep him in for observation for a few more days and that he’d need assistance with caring for his injuries after they discharged him. Harry nodded through all of this. She didn’t care what she’d need to do, or not do; she just wanted John to wake up and be alright.

They had asked her to step outside whilst they worked, wanting to spare her the sight of tubes and wires being removed and replaced, and so she wouldn’t have to watch them changing his dressings and inspecting his wounds. This seemed largely a pointless reason, seeing as she’d have to help him with it at home, and she pointed out as much to the short, brunette nurse. “Hospital policy, I’m afraid,” the nurse had shrugged. “We’ll call you back in as soon as he’s awake and we’ve checked him over. I understand how you feel,” she said. Harry didn't think the nurse understood at all. “But we can’t make an exception.” 

She paused in her pacing, and leant against the cool plaster of the wall. She tried to focus on the hand hygiene poster on the wall opposite, but could only picture her brother on the other side. Poor John, she thought. This is all he needs. Knife wounds to the stomach, a sister that until recently could barely look after herself, and a best friend returned from the bloody dead.

Harry was finally startled from her thoughts when the nurse she’d spoken to earlier popped her head out of the door. “Harry? Ms Watson?” she said quietly, with a smile. “He’s awake, he’d like to see you.”

Harry grinned back, and rushed into the room. She barely paid any attention to the nurses and orderlies as they cleared away the equipment that was no longer needed.

John raised his eyebrows at Harry as she sat down in the plastic chair by the head of his bed. “Bloody Nora,” he croaked, his throat dry from days of being intubated. Harry fumbled around in her bag and held out her bottle of water, which John took and drank from gratefully.

“Bloody Nora indeed,” she agreed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She smiled at him fondly, glad to see him awake and blinking and breathing. “Would ask how you feel, but I imagine you’re going to be high as a kite on whatever painkillers you’re on.”

John grimaced as he shifted slightly in the bed, trying to find a more comfortable position. “Doesn’t hurt yet,” he said, and took another few gulps of water. “Can feel the stitches pulling at my skin a bit, but more pressure than pain. How bad does it look?”

Harry snorted. “You were in surgery by the time they told me what had happened. And I’m not about to strip you half naked whilst you’re unconscious in bed, just to satisfy my own morbid curiosity. Figured if it was bad enough for them to knock you out, I didn’t want to see it quite yet.”

“Fair point,” John replied with a smile. “That’s why I’m the doctor and you just write letters for a living.” He chuckled, but the movement pulled on his stitches and he winced again.

“Oi, lawyer, I’ll have you know,” Harry retorted. “Just write letters, you cheeky swine.” She shook her head in amusement.

John shifted slowly again, moving his neck from side to side to ease the crick that had formed, and wiggled his toes, just because he could. "Did I miss anything during my mega kip?" he asked. "No military coups I need to know about? Are Jedward number 1 again? We didn't join the Euro, did we?"

"Nope, no coups or Irish mental twins or currency problems you need to worry about, you daft git," Harry said with a wry smile. She paused slightly before continuing. "They found the knife. The police, they found it under a bush in someone's garden. No prints they can use, though. Did you--"

John cut her off. "I didn't see him, Harry. Not properly. He was taller than me, but that's it. I can't remember the rest." He shrugged, and tried to look apologetic. "It could have been anyone. They weren't targeting me or anything."

"Yes, but you're not just anyone, you're my brother. They'll do it again, you know they will." Harry reached across to take John's hand, and squeezed it gently. "The next person might not survive."

He tilted his head to one side and pursed his lips briefly. "Not now, Harry. Please. I can't remember the attack properly yet, there's no point getting wound up about it."

"Suppose not," she replied, not completely convinced. "You shouldn't be fiddling with that, you should know that."

John had twisted his arm gently to get a good luck at the cut on his forearm. It was healing nicely, still pink and raised at the edges. It would definitely leave a scar. “I'm not fiddling. I'm looking, thank you very much." He sighed and gave Harry a tired but cheeky smile. "Another set of war wounds to add to the collection, then. Will have a peek under my stomach bandages when you've gone. Not going to subject you to them quite yet, don’t worry.”

“Two days and you can come home, then you can freak me out as much as you want with your gory flesh,” Harry offered. “I’ve to help you dress them and stuff, the nurses showed me briefly, but I guess you’ll not hesitate to tell me I’m getting it wrong.”

John smiled. “Doctors make the worst patients,” he warned.


	3. Chapter 3

John sat stiffly at the kitchen table, in the small cramped house he'd been sharing with his sister for the past three years. The wounds on his stomach were healing nicely and without any sign of infection (Harry had taken quite well to nursemaid duties) and the shallower injury on his forearm was already beginning to scar. He stirred his tea absentmindedly, only stopping to take a sip when Harry entered the room.

 

Harry pointed to the kettle with a smile, catching John's eye. John shook his head. "Sorry, just made one," he explained. "Thought you were going to be ages getting ready, and I was impatient."

 

She tutted good-naturedly and went about making herself a cup of coffee. She brought the cup with her as she sat across from John at the table. Opening her mouth to speak, she was cut off before she could utter a word.

 

"Still don't remember a thing. Not pressing charges. Drop it, please, I'm not changing my mind." John said, then took a gulp of his tea to recover from the outburst. "I know you're worried about me, but I'm fine. I'm _fine_."

 

"I wasn't going to say that, actually. You know my opinion on the matter, and I know how you feel about it, and let's just agree to disagree, for now. Yes?" She took a sip of coffee and then continued, "I was just going to ask, you know, if you'd thought of going to talk to whats-her-face again, to talk it over with her. Ellen?"

 

John answered with a snort. "Ella? No. She was useless. Crap after I came back from Afghanistan. Downright shit, after. After."

 

Harry winced. "After Sherlock," she finished for him, softly.

 

"Yeah." John sighed. "After Sherlock."

 

They sat in silence for a while, sipping at their drinks and avoiding each others eyes as they concentrated on their own thoughts.

 

They began to speak at the same time.

 

"What--"

"Harry--"

 

John held his hand out, indicating that he was happy for Harry to go first. She nodded slightly in acknowledgement.

 

"What _did_ help you, then? If Ella didn't help. How did you get over it?" she asked.

 

John chewed at his lip for some time before he replied. "I didn't," he answered honestly. "I'm not. I'm not over it. It happened, and I grieved, you're supposed to grieve, it's supposed to help. For him, I mourned him and I mourned what he could have been, given half a chance." He stared into the dregs of tea in his mug.

 

"For what you could have been, too."

 

"Yeah, that. That too." John turned his head to look out of the kitchen window, and focused his eyes on the two bumblebees happily buzzing near the lavender outside. He took a deep breath. "I miss him, I still miss him, Harry. It's been, what, three years? He's been dead nearly twice as long as I ever knew him alive. I can't leave him behind, I can't shake him off. I can't. Why can't I?"

 

Harry reached across the table and placed a hand over John's. "Because you loved him, you still do. And that's alright."

 

He gave her a brief nod, eyes closed. She stood and walked behind his chair, wrapping her arms around him in a protective hug. "It's really, it's really alright, John. I bet he knew, brain the size of his." She moved back slightly, and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "I need to pop out, you'll be OK on your own, won't you? Just be an hour or so."

 

John nodded again, his lips pressed together tightly. "I'll be fine. Go, go."

 

\---

 

Twenty minutes later, Harry sat in her parked car, nervously fiddling with her hair as she checked the rear view mirror. She was due in the café across the road in a few minutes. She'd called Sherlock the night before to arrange it, on the number that his brother had discreetly passed to her after the funeral. "Just in case John needs anything, do not hesitate to get in touch," he'd said. Little had she known that she'd need to use it to arrange a meeting like this.

 

She found an unoccupied table towards the back of the café and ordered a pot of tea and a scone from the waitress. She folded and unfolded the serviette distractedly as she waited. Sherlock appeared just as the order arrived at the table. "Harriet." He greeted her with a terse nod.

 

"Tea?" Harry asked, with a forced smile.

 

Sherlock shook his head. He sat in the chair opposite. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me," he said quietly. He looked slightly healthier than when Harry had seen him in John's room at the hospital a few weeks ago. She hoped that it was a sign that he really _had_ finished whatever mission he'd been on; one that had taken a faked suicide and three years to sort out.

 

"You haven't told him yet," Sherlock commented after a long pause, as Harry nibbled at the edge of her scone.

 

"No," she confirmed, "not yet. Soon, though, soon."

 

"I'm back at Baker Street. Our landlady didn't re-let the flat during my...enforced absence. It's how it was when he, when we left. It's the same." As he spoke, Sherlock fiddled with the packets of sugar that the waitress had provided with the tea. He realised, and pushed them out of his reach, and looked up to meet Harry's eyes.

 

"I'll need a bit of time, yeah, to work out how to tell John." Harry sighed. "Has your life _always_ been this fucking complicated?"

 

"Fairly complicated, yes." Sherlock moved to stand up. "One week, Harriet, that's all I will wait. Tell him before then, and we'll do it your way. Otherwise, I'll take matters into my own hands."

 

Harry looked at him incredulously. "A _week_? Are you _mad_? Yes, you are; of course you bloody are," she hissed. She rubbed her face with both hands. "I'll try. I'll see what I can do."

 

Finally standing, Sherlock gave Harry a small but genuine smile. "I have every confidence in you, Harriet. You'll do the right thing. One week." With that, he swept out of the café and into a waiting car, leaving her open-mouthed, a barely touched scone and a half cup of tea still sitting in front of her.


	4. Chapter 4

Harry shut the front door quietly, and rested her head against the white painted wood. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Upstairs, she could hear John moving around in his bedroom; ordinarily she would call up, announce that she'd returned, but she couldn't quite muster the energy to do so. Instead, she headed towards the kitchen.  
   
John had tidied up in her absence. In an effort to try and distract herself from thinking over her meeting with Sherlock, she picked up a dishcloth and started to wipe the worktops anyway. At least if they were already clean, she didn't have to worry about missing a spot. It was just something to do.  
   
After a few minutes of mindless cleaning, she heard the creak of the stairs, and then John shuffled into the kitchen with an armful of clothes destined for the washing machine. "Didn't realise you were back," he said, surprised.  
   
Harry dropped the dishcloth into the sink but didn't turn to look at John. She looked out of the window, towards the trees at the back of their garden. "Seemed busy, like you were doing something, didn't want to disturb you," she muttered.  
   
John stepped towards the washing machine and knelt slowly by the door before loading it. "Just getting my washing together, that's all. Did you get what you'd gone out for?"  
   
"What? Oh. Yes, yes," Harry answered distractedly.  
   
Resting a hand on the worktop to push himself into a standing position, John winced slightly as the movement pulled at his healing stomach. "Anything nice?"  
   
"What?" Harry turned to look at him, confused.  
   
"When you popped out? Did you get anything nice?" he clarified for her.  
   
"Hmm? I-- I didn't get anything." Harry was beginning to feel flustered. She wanted to leave the room. Some fresh air, or an escape from John's questions - either would have been good. She took a few steps forward, but was stopped from leaving as John grabbed her by the upper arm. He pulled her towards him.  
   
"Breathe out," he demanded.  
   
"Fuck off, let me go, John!" she responded. "Get off me."  
   
John leaned in to smell Harry's breath for himself. He crinkled his nose but couldn't reach a conclusion. "You've been drinking," he accused her, anyway, his voice steely. "You're hiding it better, though, I'll give you that."  
   
Harry pulled and twisted her arm, trying to free herself from his grasp. "Seriously, just fucking _drop it_ , John. I've not had a fucking drink. Let. Go. Of. My. Arm."  
   
"You're hiding something. What are you hiding, if not drink?" He let go of her arm, but moved towards the doorway, blocking her exit. "Excuse me, _forgive me_ , for not taking you at your word."  
   
Harry crumpled into one of the kitchen chairs. She folded her arms on the table and rested her forehead against them, taking a few moments to gather her thoughts. John appeared content to loiter in the doorway as he waited for her to answer.  
   
"Sherlock," she said, her voice muffled, her head still resting on her arms.  
   
John almost didn't hear her. He moved closer to the table, and held onto the back of the empty chair. "Sorry, what? Come again?"  
   
Harry raised her head and met his eyes. "You heard."  
   
He shook his head. "What the fuck are you on about? You are, you're drunk, aren't you? Fuck's sake, Harry."  
   
"John. Sit down." Harry took a deep breath as she waited. He remained standing. "Come on, you're not an idiot. Arse, chair; introduce them to each other. Sit."  
   
John sat down, but continued to regard his sister sceptically. She reached across the table to take hold of John's hand, covering it with both of hers. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again, struggling to find the words.  
   
"It's. He's. Um, I don't know, John. I can't." She shrugged helplessly. "I don't know how to tell you what I need to tell you."  
   
John's brow crinkled, a mixture of concern and confusion. He leaned in towards her. "Harry, come on, you're worrying me now. What is it?"  
   
"Not dead, John. He's not dead." Harry closed her eyes as she spoke. She felt John pull his hand away from hers; heard the scrape on the floor as he pushed his chair back.  
   
"Low fucking blow, Harry. What game are you playing, why? What's the point? Is this why you were asking--"  
   
Harry opened her eyes and turned in her chair to face him. John was leaning against the worktop now, the washing machine spinning behind him.  
   
"Jesus fucking Christ, John, I had no idea you thought so fucking little of me!" she fumed, banging the kitchen table with her closed fist in exasperation. "I'm not messing with you. I'm not drunk. He's alive, John, you have to believe me. Calm down," she held her hands up, mock-surrender, "calm down and I can try and explain. Tell you what I know. Alright?"  
   
He paced the kitchen for a minute before returning to his seat. "Go on then. Explain." He crossed his arms and waited.  
   
Harry took a deep, steadying breath. "He came to see you in the hospital. Whilst you were still, you know. Out cold. I wasn't, I wasn't supposed to see him, I don't think. I'd left my book, and I went back for it, and there he was. Talking to you."  
   
John exhaled a sharp breath though his nose. "Talking to me? Saying what?"  
   
"I don't know, I couldn't hear," Harry shook her head as she answered. "He tried to explain, but, um. I think you need to hear it from him. Not me. But I told him to wait, not to come and see you again. Not until you were better."  
   
John's mouth felt dry, and his head felt light. He ran a hand over his face slowly. "You're, you're telling me, I'm sparked out in a hospital bed and my dead best friend is sat vigil by my side? And then he fucked off because you - YOU - told him to?"  
   
Harry nodded. "I was looking out for you."  
   
"And now? What now? Today, what did you do today, then? Did you see him? You saw him again, didn't you? You saw him." John's eyes widened in disbelief as he spoke. "Were you ever going to tell me? Jesus..."  
   
"Yes. I did. And I'm telling you now. He wants to see you, he wants you to know that he's alive. He gave me a week, but you know. Who needs a week, when you can do it barely half an hour afterwards." Harry sighed, wearily. "I wanted to, you know, break it to you a bit more gently."  
   
John slumped in his chair. He looked at Harry again, looking almost lost. "Gently," he huffed. He rubbed at his face again, then the back of his neck. "Jesus."  
   
Harry reached out again to reassure him, and rubbed softly at his forearm. "Come on, grab your jacket. I'll drive." She stood up and waited for him to follow. He didn't, so she pulled him out of the chair with both hands the best she could. "Jacket."  
   
"What? Drive where? Harry, I need to at least process this, it's a lot. "  
   
"Baker Street. You can process it on the way."  
   
   
   
   
   
 


	5. Chapter 5

Harry pulled up the car outside 221 Baker Street, and turned off the engine. John had spent the entire journey silently staring out of the front windscreen. He made no move to get out of the car, or look anywhere else apart from straight ahead. Harry rested her hand on his knee. “John.”

“You shouldn’t have brought me here.” John turned to look sadly at his sister. “He’s not here, Harry, why would he be? I can’t, I can’t. Please, let’s just go home.”

“No.” Harry pressed her hand to the centre of the steering wheel, sounding the horn. She hit it a few more times for good measure. “You have to get out of the car. Go and see him, John.”

He shook his head. “Harry, please. I don’t know why you’re doing this. Take me back, Harry.” John’s voice began to waver. “ _Please._ ”

Harry looked over John’s shoulder, where she could see the front door of 221 slowly inching open. “Look, John.”

"Hm?" He turned his head the other way, towards the door of the place he'd once called home. He saw a flicker of movement through the gap between the door and the frame. "Oh, Harry, oh no, no. Please, come on, let's just go home."

John looked puzzled as Harry unbuckled both of their seatbelts, then left the car, and walked around to open his door. He quickly refastened his seatbelt and crossed his arms. Harry rolled her eyes and reached across him to unbuckle the belt again. 

"Come on, you idiot. You're not twelve, stop acting like it. Up and out of the car. Come on," she urged, as she took a small step backwards, holding her hand out towards him. "You'll thank me later. Plus, you can't drive, and I'm not taking no for an answer."

With a heavy sigh, John nodded at his sister and took her outstretched hand. She closed the car door behind him, and guided him forwards. They stood silently at the familiar doorstep for a few moments. John pushed the wooden door gingerly. It opened further to reveal an empty hallway. His heart felt like it was trying to escape through his chest.

"Harry--" John span on his heels and closed his eyes. He could still feel the pounding of his heart. Sherlock Holmes would be the bloody death of him.

Harry steadied him with a hand on the small of his back. She let him recover himself and nudged him to turn back again. "Inside. Upstairs. Go in, go on. You need to do this now, it’s... it’s like ripping off a plaster. Best to do it quickly."

John stepped over the threshold and into the hallway. He held onto the door, and turned to face his sister. "I hate you," he said calmly. "I hate you so much right now."

"Hate me as much as you want, as long as it gets you up those bloody stairs. I'll be an hour and a half. See you later, yeah?" Harry gave him a kind smile. She desperately wanted to hug him, clasp his hand, squeeze his shoulder. Something to reassure him. A smile would just have to do for now. 

**

John waited in the hallway for nearly ten minutes after Harry had driven away. He braced a hand against the wall and tried to breathe normally. He was struck by how little the interior of the house had changed. He stared at the seventeen steps between where he was, and where he had to go. 

“Well, then,” he muttered to himself. “Let’s see just how mad this fucking thing has driven me.”

With hesitant steps, he finally made his way to the upstairs landing, and the doorway leading into 221b. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d walked through this door, never sure what he’d find on the other side - body parts, clients, a bored detective still in sleepwear at 4pm. He turned the handle and pushed.

Entering the room, John’s eyes were immediately drawn to the pale, thin figure in the leather armchair. Sherlock lifted his head to meet John’s gaze. “John--” he started.

“No. No, shut up, just.... _shut up_.” John closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t you say a fucking word, alright?” He opened his eyes again. Sherlock was still sitting in the armchair. John walked across the room to stand by the side of him, and reached out to grab a handful of hair. It was shorter now, and a shade or two lighter. He pulled, hard. Sherlock yelped in surprise.

“I thought I told you to shut up.” John moved to sit in the red armchair. The blanket was still draped across the back. Nothing was dusty in here; Mrs Hudson must have popped in every now and then. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, observing the once dead man in front of him. 

“Dead men don’t feel pain,” he said, a slight waver in his voice. “I’m not sorry, though. I just, hm. It’s, it...” John paused, and shook his head, unable to find the words. “You can, you can speak now.”

“They don’t feel pain, that’s true,” Sherlock agreed. “They don’t feel _anything_.” He paused for a moment to purse his lips and tap his long fingers lightly against the join. “I, John, it was--”

John held a hand up to silence him. “No, no. I don’t want to know any of it. One day, maybe. Not now.”

“But you gave me permission to speak, surely you want to know?” Sherlock looked confused, and almost hurt.

“I probably do, just not now, alright? An hour ago I thought you were dead, you dick. This doesn’t happen, _you don’t get to do this to me_ , alright? Any minute now, I’m going to wake up, drenched in cold sweat, in Harry’s fucking spare room, and I’ll go back to fucking limping my way to work and hobbling back again and barely fucking existing, alright? Last thing I need is my pissing subconscious making excuses for you, yeah?” John ended the tirade by flopping backwards in his chair and staring at the ceiling. Mrs Hudson may have dusted the place, but the crack by the cornice was still there. John smiled at the thought. He closed his eyes and remembered how it used to be, him and his lanky flatmate, thick as thieves. His smile grew, indulgent this time, and he didn’t notice that Sherlock had risen from his chair to stand in front of him. His eyes flew open as Sherlock pinched his cheek, hard, with just his fingernails.

“Ow, you fucking lunatic, what did you fucking do that for? Jesus Christ, Sherlock, what the _fuck_ is wrong with you?!” John rubbed at his cheek, trying to ease the sting.

Sherlock had returned to his chair, and flashed a smug grin at John. “Sleeping men don’t feel pain. I’m here, you’re in denial, you think you’re dreaming. You’re not.”

“Still insufferable, I see.” John levered himself out of his chair and kicked Sherlock squarely in the shin. Sherlock had sensed John’s attack and braced himself for it, but didn’t prevent it. 

“Making sure for good measure, I see?”

“Don’t make me check again. Fuck, Sherlock. Jesus _fucking_ Christ. What do you want from me? What do you expect me to do? Fucking hell, oh fuck.”

Sherlock studied John for a few moments. John stared at the corner of the fireplace and clenched his hands on the arms of the chair. The uneasy silence was broken with an uncharacteristic stutter. 

“J-John, if you’d let me, let me explain, it may help - I had to. I _had to_...”

“No, no, you can’t. I said don’t tell me. So don’t tell me. I can’t stay, I can’t do this right now. I’m going. Goodbye, Sherlock.” John looked defiantly at him, and stood up. “Goodbye. I can’t do this, I really can’t. I... no, nope. Going.” He began to head towards the door, and didn’t look back. 

“Wait, John.”

He paused, but did not turn around. “No. _Goodbye_ , Sherlock.”

“ _Please_.” Sherlock had risen from his chair again, and moved to stand directly behind John. “Stay, please, just a little longer. For me.”

After a moment, a silent heartbeat, John gave his answer with the briefest of nods, but remained otherwise motionless. Sherlock closed the gap between them, wrapping one arm around John’s waist, and the other around his chest. He tucked his face into the space between John’s neck and shoulder.

“At least, permit me to say sorry, John.”

“Alright,” John said quietly. He made no move to extract himself from Sherlock’s embrace. “OK.”

“Sorry,” whispered Sherlock. “I’m really very, very, sorry.”

A sob emerged from John, who tried his very best to bite it back. He brought both his hands up to clasp and stroke at the arm around his chest. He felt a shudder pass through Sherlock, and a dampness on his neck, shortly followed by a series of sniffles.

“I know you are.” He squeezed Sherlock’s arm reassuringly. “I should hate you right now.”

Sherlock nodded against his shoulder. 

“I don’t, though. I can’t. How can I?” John said, and heaved an unsteady breath. He stepped away, and Sherlock allowed his arms to fall by his sides again. John turned to look at him. “I missed you, you fucking idiot.”

“I know.” Sherlock gave John a watery smile, wiping at his eyes as he spoke. “I missed you. I missed this, us. Here.”

“That’s all I need to know for now.” John exhaled loudly, and rubbed his face with both hands. “Tea, then, we still have stuff for tea? I’ve time, before Harry comes back, and... and tea fixes things. So, tea. Yes?”

Sherlock smiled at the suggestion, relief washing over his features. “Yes.”


	6. Chapter 6

Six weeks after he'd seen Sherlock again, John made the decision to move back in to Baker Street. He'd visited fairly regularly, mostly for tea. Catch-ups weren't really their thing, but they'd both lost something after Sherlock's fall, and would gladly take any opportunity to rediscover it. Sherlock still seemed slightly reserved in John's company, timid, almost. John wouldn't allow any conversational topic that approached or even threatened to approach an explanation of what had happened on the roof of St Bart's.

 

Harry had been happy for John, and had given him a hand with lugging his boxes up two flights of stairs. They parted with a friendly hug and promises not to fall back into their old routine of never speaking to each other.

 

John and Sherlock found it difficult to settle back into their old routines. Three years, not to mention death and the grieving process, had done much to change both of them. John no longer felt able to nag Sherlock into eating more, sleeping more, smoking less. Sherlock had grown used to his solitary existence and appeared to finally make good on the long ago threat never to talk for days on end.

 

Towards the end of the first week, John gathered his laptop and his book, and made his way upstairs to bed. It was earlier than he usually retired, but the tension and uneasiness between them had grown to uncomfortable levels. John was beginning to think that returning to 221b had not been the best of ideas.

 

He climbed into bed and switched on his bedside lamp, intending to read for a short while. He settled into a comfortable position, and opened his book. Three and a half hours later, he woke up, the book splayed open on his chest and the lamp still casting a dim glow across the room. Sherlock was sitting on the end of the bed, his knees tucked under his chin, and the t-shirt of his pyjamas riding up slightly at the back. He hadn't yet realised that John was awake.

 

John watched him through sleepy, half closed eyes. Sherlock's head was tipped slightly to one side, his eyes focussed on the doorway. He appeared deep in thought. "Sherlock?" John whispered. "What's wrong?"

 

Sherlock jerked his head quickly in surprise, looking at John, and blinked a few times to refocus his eyes. He stretched out his legs and began to rise from the bed.

 

"What's wrong?" John asked again, louder this time. "Are you OK?" 

 

Sherlock paused at the bottom of the bed, and held on to the wooden frame. "No," he answered, simply.

 

"What are you doing up here?" John picked up the book still on the covers, and dumped it on the floor next to the bed. He heaved himself up into a seated position.

 

Sherlock looked to the floor, and then back at John. "Sleep, I can't get to sleep." He shrugged pathetically.

 

John rubbed the back of his head sleepily, and yawned as he spoke. "Why'd you think that is, then?"

 

"I don't know." Sherlock shrugged again, and shook his head.

 

"Yes you do," John said, with a pointed look. "You always know. You just sometimes don't want to admit that you do."

 

A look of uncertainty crossed Sherlock's features. He sat back down on the bed, lifting his legs onto the mattress so he could cross them. He leaned against the rail at the bottom of the bed, facing John.

 

"It's not the same, any more. I thought, I hoped that once I was back, once you were here and safe, we'd go back to how it was before." Sherlock bit nervously at the skin on the pad of his thumb. "And we haven't. It's wrong, it's all wrong."

 

John smiled sadly back at him. "All those brains in that lovely head of yours, they don't do you much good at times like these, do they? That's what bothers you the most. You're lost and you don't know how to find your way again."

 

Sherlock averted his eyes and nodded. "I expect there's an element of truth in that statement."

 

John shuffled further forward down the bed, and in doing so, Sherlock spotted the raised red scar on his forearm. He reached out to trace the line of it.

 

"Wondered how long it'd take you," John muttered with a smile. It raised a genuine smile from Sherlock in return. John extended his arm in order to allow a more thorough examination. Sherlock bit his lip as he looked. After a few minutes, he let John's arm fall back onto the duvet cover. He reached for the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head.

 

John opened his mouth to question Sherlock's action, but understood it as soon as the t-shirt had been flung towards John's wardrobe. A winding scar was visible on Sherlock's chest, just above his heart. It was light pink and well healed, but still a marked contrast to the pale freckled skin surrounding it. John's eyes crinkled in sympathy, and he held his hand out, pausing for a nod of permission. He skimmed his fingertips lightly along the scar. "How deep?" he asked in a hushed tone. "When?"

 

"Not very; eight months ago," Sherlock replied. He then rolled up the left leg of his pyjamas, and pointed to a jagged and unsightly scar just below his knee. "Fourteen months ago."

 

"You didn't get that looked at. No stitches." John prodded gently at it.

 

"No doctor," he explained. He kept his eyes focused on the concerned, weary face in front of him. He sensed John's next move and leaned forward, dipping his head.

 

John's fingers raked through the curls at Sherlock's hairline, his eyes intently searching in the dim light. "Nothing," he said, barely an exhale. "Nothing, not a fucking mark..."

 

Sherlock pulled back, smoothing his hair down again. "Magic trick," he said, curving his lips at the side. He held his hands up to John, indicating that would be as much as he said, without further prompting.

 

"Wanker." There was a slight hitch in John's voice. He sat for a while, his head in his hands, then took off his own well-washed, faded t-shirt. He chewed at his bottom lip as Sherlock catalogued the new landscape of his torso. Three raised, red, angry scars had joined the faded war wound on his shoulder.

 

Sherlock reached out again to touch, but John shook his head. He withdrew his hand. "How deep?"

 

"Two inches. Deep enough to hurt." John forced a laugh.

 

Sherlock inhaled and exhaled sharply before speaking. "It was an unprovoked attack, but you goaded him."

 

"Yep."

 

"It hurt, of course it did, wounds of that depth and severity, but you were glad to finally feel something."

 

John turned his head to stare between the gap in the curtains. "Yes, yep." He squared his shoulders and set his jaw.

 

"When you woke up you were angry. Not at them, for doing it. Not even at me, for being dead. You were angry at yourself for surviving."

 

"Got it in one, well done, now aren't you bloody fantastic," John muttered sarcastically. He crossed his arms in front of his bare chest.

 

Sherlock shifted closer to John on the bed, touching his knee lightly through the bedclothes. "John... you know I don't even have a modicum of tact. I, I shouldn't have spoken so frankly."

 

John turned back to look at Sherlock again. "No, it's true, it's just... I'm tired, Sherlock, I'm fucking knackered. One in the morning is not the optimum time for discussions like this. Stay up here, if you want, just let me kip for a bit, alright? We can talk later, properly. Promise."

 

"Alright." Sherlock unfolded his limbs from beneath himself and crossed the room to retrieve his t-shirt. He quickly put it back on and climbed onto the bed, lying flat on his back, on top of the duvet. John turned onto his side, legs curled up into the foetal position. He faced away from Sherlock, who was staring resolutely at the ceiling. They fell asleep without another word.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's the smut you've all been waiting for. Enjoy...

John woke the following morning with a face full of armpit. He lifted the arm away from his face and tipped his head on the pillow to look at Sherlock. The movement had stirred him awake.   
  
“Good morning,” John said as nonchalantly as he could manage.    
  
“Is it?” Sherlock replied sleepily. “Wake me up in an hour.”    
  
Instead of rolling away to the other side of the bed, as John had expected, Sherlock merely shuffled further down the mattress. He slung his arm around John’s waist, hooked a foot around his outstretched leg, and clung very close indeed. He nestled his head in the crook of John’s armpit, and promptly dozed off again.    
  
John shook Sherlock awake. “You do have your own bed, you know.”   
  
Sherlock grumbled, his eyes resolutely closed. “I’m in this one now. Not moving.”   
  
“I’m in this one too. It’s mine.”   
  
“So?”   
  
“So, it’s not yours, and... you’re clinging to me,” John said indignantly.   
  
“So? Comfortable. Be quiet.”   
  
“Sherlock.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“I was trying to be tactful, but...”   
  
“Get on with it,” Sherlock mumbled into John’s chest, his hair tickling him slightly.   
  
“Erection. You have an erection, and it’s poking me in the stomach, and...”   
  
“Hmph.” Sherlock moved his arm from around John’s waist and skimmed his hand over the crotch of John’s pyjama pants. “You have one too. Cancel each other out. Let me sleep.” Sherlock sprawled across him further, covering half of John’s body with his own. “Warm, nice, let me sleep.” He tucked his head between John’s neck and shoulder, and brought his hand up to hold on to the other shoulder lightly.   
  
“Bloody hell,” John mumbled, rolling his eyes at the ceiling.    
  
“‘F you had any objection, you’d have pushed me off by now,” Sherlock accused, his breath hot against John’s skin.    
  
“Shut up or I’ll push you down the bleeding stairs,” John countered. “Never took you for a snuggler. It’s rather endearing.”   
  
“Hm,” Sherlock agreed. He stroked up and down John’s arm, his fingers tracing the curves of the muscles. John moved his other arm to curl around Sherlock’s back, instead of stretching it out on the covers. Sherlock inched even closer. John smiled to himself.   
  
“John?”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Touch you again now, ‘kay?” Sherlock tipped his head slightly to nip sleepily at John’s jaw, whilst his hand snaked slowly down towards John’s groin. “‘Kay?”   
  
John nodded, and shakily let out a breath. “Yeah...Alright.” He gasped as he felt Sherlock’s hand work its way into his pyjama pants, and close around his cock. He tried to enjoy the way Sherlock was working his erection, but something wasn’t right.   
  
“Sherlock, stop,” John hissed. Sherlock froze in place, his hand still wrapped tightly around John. “Gimme your hand, here.”   
  
Sherlock pulled his hand free and presented it to John. “What?” He lifted his head to look at him, and his eyes widened as John licked several wet stripes up the centre of his palm. “Oh.”   
  
John pushed his pyjama bottoms down with one hand the best he could, freeing his erection. Sherlock rested his head on John’s sternum and took hold of his cock again. He stroked carefully. The grip wasn’t tight enough for John, who bucked his hips in an effort to gain more friction. “Tighter, yeah?” he finally muttered. Sherlock assumed a firmer grip and began to tug harder and faster. “Fuck, shit, not that tight!” he gasped. He moved his hand to cover Sherlock’s. “Let me?”   
  
Sherlock pushed himself into a kneeling position and nodded. “Sorry,” he said, biting his lip.    
  
John shook his head against the pillow, smiling up at Sherlock. He held up his hand. “S’alright. Lick. Like I did.” Sherlock complied with the request, his tongue lingering briefly at the join between John’s palm and his fingers.    
  
“Now watch, like this. Close as you like.” Sherlock braced his hands on his knees, and leant forward, bringing his face level with the head of John’s penis. He could see the slickness of his saliva mixing with the pre-come that was now leaking from the slit, as John masturbated in front of him. John looked at Sherlock, who was studying the technique intently. “Firm enough to feel good, light enough to, oh shit, to tease a bit. ‘Sgood, feels good.”   
  
Sherlock’s mouth had fallen open during his observation. He moved in to get closer look. “How soon? Soon?” he whispered, and brought a hand to his mouth, rubbing his bottom lip.   
  
John nodded. “God yeah, soon.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Cover my hand with yours, now. Do it now.”   
  
Sherlock again did as he was told, and braced a hand on the other side of John as he moved ever closer. John was stroking with a much different rhythm than the one he’d tried; he resolved to implement it himself, should he be given a second chance; a next time.    
  
The addition of Sherlock’s hand covering his was the catalyst for John’s orgasm. He yelped a warning - “Uhhf!” - and his hips rose from the mattress. His release spurted out, hitting Sherlock in the face. The majority had landed across his cheek, but his left eyebrow was also coated.   
  
“Fuck, sorry, shit,” gasped John. “Caught in the line of fire, sorry. Oh Christ, sweet  Jesus. I’ve not come like that in years.”   
  
Sherlock grinned, and raised an eyebrow. His left eyebrow. The trickle of come lodged there ran down into his eye. “Bollocks,” he grumbled, wiping it away.   
  
**   
  
They had settled back against the pillows, relaxed as the sun streamed through the gap in the curtains. They were feeling sleepy again after their exertions.   
  
“Sherlock?”   
  
“What?”   
  
“How long?”   
  
“How long what? Piece of string?”   
  
“How long,  this ? Me?”   
  
“Quite a while. Let me go to bloody sleep.”   
  
“You can be more specific than that. Bet you can narrow it down to the hour.” John snorted.   
  
“The minute, now do be quiet, I’m rapidly going off you again.” Sherlock’s action of curling closer against John as he spoke removed the bite of his words. John chuckled, and tangled his fingers in Sherlock's hair, giving it an affectionate tug before shutting his eyes.   



	8. Chapter 8

John stood in the kitchen, drying the plates and cutlery that he'd just washed. He hummed to himself as he worked, and tapped his sock-clad feet to the rhythm.

Sherlock had been summoned to meet with Mycroft, leaving John by himself. John had taken the opportunity to have a relaxing bath to make the most of his moment of peace. Clean, chilled and happy, he puttered around the flat, tidying as he went. The washing up was the last item on his mental list of chores.

Once the washing up was done, he flopped down onto the sofa and switched the television on. He spent a few moments flicking between channels before settling on a genealogy programme he was sure he'd seen at least twice before. No matter; he was intending to relax, so the less concentration required, the better.

The low, soothing voice of the narrator soon lulled John to sleep. He lay sprawled on the sofa, one arm dangling over the side, the other curled behind his head. His legs were bent and splayed open, and his jumper had risen slightly to reveal a stripe of the fuzzy golden hair on his tummy, the edge of a scar poking out from below the hem. He was snoring.

Sherlock returned half an hour later, and smirked at the sight (and sound) that greeted him. He pulled off his coat and suit jacket, and hung them up carefully. He toed off his shoes and crept towards the sofa. He gently moved John's legs further apart, and climbed between them. He braced a hand either side of John's head, and slowly lowered his body to lay on top of the sleeping man.

The sleeping man did not remain sleeping for long, as Sherlock's weight jolted him awake. “You do realise that this is a fairly unorthodox method of waking someone up, right?” John mumbled.

Sherlock grinned, then dipped his head to press a line of kisses along John's stubbled jaw. John tipped his head back to allow easier access to his neck, and chuckled. “Ah, so it's like this, is it?”

Moving his hands from beside John's head to the armrest, Sherlock had more leverage with which to grind his hips against John's. He bit his full lower lip as he rocked at a maddeningly slow pace. John groaned beneath him, raising his own hips in an effort to influence a faster rhythm.

Sherlock stilled his hips and raised his body a few centimetres, depriving John of contact. He loomed over him, bringing their eyes level. “What’s the rush? What’s wrong with slow, hm?”

“Slow, alright,” agreed John. “Get off, though, I’ve an idea.” Sherlock looked at him curiously, but stood up and watched as John moved to sit on the middle cushion of the sofa. He looked up at Sherlock, grinned and beckoned him forward.

He straddled John, feet dangling off the cushions behind him, and grinned back. John’s hands grabbed at his arse, kneading slowly through his trousers. Sherlock resumed his slow grind on John’s lap. Their eyes met and neither man could look away. John moved a hand and began to pull Sherlock’s shirt free from his trousers. He snaked a hand underneath the fabric and began to stroke in time with Sherlock’s rolling hips.

Sherlock held John’s face in his hands, gently running his thumbs across his cheekbones. John let out a shuddering breath and leaned forward, just as Sherlock dipped down, bringing their noses together.

Neither of them heard the front door open, nor the brief female conversation drifting up the stairs. They didn’t hear the heels striking each step on the way to their landing. They did hear the “JESUS FUCK, GUYS.”

Harry stood open-mouthed in the doorway, holding a box of John’s CDs that he’d left behind. Sherlock jumped backwards quickly, smoothing his shirt once he was stood upright. A vaguely sincere smile curled his lips at the corners. “Harriet, hello.”

John snorted at Sherlock’s formal greeting to his sister, then realised he was sitting with a fairly visible erection in plain view. He grabbed one of the decorative cushions and covered his lap. “You’ve not heard about knocking, then?” he asked, looking embarrassed.

Sherlock crossed into the kitchen and began to bang cups and pans around, to make it sound like he was preparing tea. In actual fact, he was merely eavesdropping. The only reason he’d left the room was so that he wouldn’t actually have to participate in the awkward conversation; listening in to one was infinitely more interesting.

“Thought you hated being called Harriet,” John commented, coughing at the end to cover his awkwardness.

Harry placed the box on the coffee table, but didn’t sit down. “He’s got that posh voice that makes it sound nice. If I wasn’t, you know, playing for my own team, I’d fancy him too.”

John looked at her, dumbfounded. “You’d fancy _Sherlock_?!”

She laughed, throwing her head back and placing her hands on her hips in an effort to stay upright. “Don’t sound so fucking scandalised, John. You’re the one humping him like a bloody teenager whilst your parents are out.”

John’s ears turned red with embarrassment, his cheeks doing their best to match the colour. “Harry, Jesus, just... I’ll ring you later, yeah, you’ve left the CDs, can’t you just leave?” He picked up the spare cushion and threw it at her, narrowly missing her head.

“I know where I’m not wanted, don’t worry,” Harry said with a wry smile. “Two seconds, and I’ll leave you two horny kids alone. Let me just say goodbye to _loverboy_.”  
John rolled his eyes and watched his sister walk into the kitchen. He took the opportunity to disappear upstairs to his bedroom, calling out, “Bye Harry!” as he took the stairs two at a time.

Harry leaned against the back of a kitchen chair, waiting for Sherlock to acknowledge her presence. He continued to ignore her. “Ahem,” she prompted. “Oi, lankylegs. Turn around.”

Sherlock turned around and regarded her quietly, and didn’t offer a greeting.

“So I see you’re getting on _very well_ with my little brother,” she said, with a smug grin. “He’s forgiven you, I take it?”

“What makes you think I am liable to share my feelings and relationship details in my kitchen with you, Harriet?” He began to turn away from her again, fiddling with the box of teabags next to the kettle. She wasn’t perturbed by this, and merely stepped around the table, bringing her close enough to rest a hand on his shoulder.

“I think, love, that you’re forgetting quite how much you owe me.” She squeezed her fingers and encouraged him to turn around. He turned and leaned back against the worktop.

“He...is still not comfortable discussing my _absence_ ,” he finally admitted. “But I think I’m forgiven. As much as he is able to forgive me. And I am sorry, he does know that, doesn’t he?”

Harry nodded. “I’m sure he does. And, I, uh, I imagine he’s upstairs with a raging erection still, so I’ll let you two get, ahem. Busy. One last thing, though.”

“Yes?”

“Break his heart, Sherlock, and I’ll fucking break your legs.” Harry smiled, and kissed him on the cheek briefly. “See you around.”

“Duly noted, Harriet.” He walked past her, heading towards the stairs. “I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t see you out.”

“Never expected you to,” she laughed. “Have at him.”

**

Sherlock rushed upstairs, barely registering the noise of Harry slamming the front door shut behind her. He burst into John’s room, and found the older man pacing impatiently.

“John,” Sherlock said in a growl as he crossed the floor, closing the gap between them. John grabbed a fistful of Sherlock’s hair and pulled him down into a searing kiss. They manouvered themselves towards the bed, only stopping when the back of John’s legs met the side of the mattress.

Sherlock broke away from the kiss and ran a finger along John’s jaw and down his neck. Then, more roughly, he pushed John backwards onto the bed. He regarded the flush creeping up his lover’s neck and chuckled. “Trousers, John, quick.” He dropped to his knees, and waited for John to lift his hips and strip his lower half. With no preamble, Sherlock nudged John’s legs open wider, and took him deep into his mouth.

“Shit,” John groaned, his head tipping back. He held himself steady with one arm propped behind him, and threaded the fingers of his other hand through Sherlock’s messy curls. Sherlock maintained a steady pace, bobbing his head enthusiastically on John’s cock, his cheeks hollowed as he sucked harder.

“Sherlock, off, off, fuck,” John panted as he coaxed Sherlock’s head away. He moved his hand from Sherlock’s hair to his own erection, fisting it frantically. “I’m, oh, oh let me, on your face, fuck, please, your face.”

With a grin, Sherlock held the hair away from his face, and presented his left cheek for John. He closed his eyes, and his lips parted, eager tongue poking out to moisten them. With his free hand, he palmed at his own arousal through his trousers.

John came with a shout, making sure to watch as his release painted white against Sherlock’s flushed cheeks. He moved further back on the bed to lean against the pillows, and crooked a finger to beckon Sherlock forward.

Sherlock undressed before joining John on the bed, sitting astride his legs once more. With nimble fingers, he deftly began to unbutton John’s shirt, accepting hot, eager kisses as he did so. John paused in his kisses to lick Sherlock’s face clean of his own release, and they both moaned at the realisation.

They began to rock together, slowly. John reached between them to wrap a hand around Sherlock’s arousal. Sherlock held on to the headboard behind them, increasing the pace of his thrusts into John’s fist. John licked and mouthed at Sherlock’s pale chest whenever his body moved within reach.

As he felt his orgasm coil in his belly, Sherlock moved his hands from the headboard to cup John’s face. He stared intently into his deep blue eyes, lips forming words that fell silently from his mouth. John slowed his hand, flicking his thumb slowly over the head of Sherlock’s penis to draw out his pleasure, enjoying the look of pure desire on his partner’s face.

“Ready?” John said breathlessly. Sherlock nodded. “Then let go, let it go.”

Sherlock keened in John’s lap, his back arching as his orgasm tore through him, his semen hitting John in the chest. “Fuck.”

Laughing, John pulled Sherlock closer, smearing the semen on his chest between them. “Next time I’m going to fuck you through the mattress, my god,” he murmured into the curls tickling his nose.

Sherlock answered him with a bite to his good shoulder, and a whisper. “Make sure you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my first multi-chaptered fic has come to an end! It's certainly been an experience - it ended up a million miles from my plan, but I love it for all it's faults, anyway. I hope you liked it too - all comments and reviews are gratefully received, as they give me something to work on for next time.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> x


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